


Love to Hate You

by echoes_of_another_life



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoes_of_another_life/pseuds/echoes_of_another_life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants her, Abaddon. He doesn’t want to, hates that he does, but oh, God, he wants her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love to Hate You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [millygal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/gifts).



  


Love to Hate You

Dean groaned, half asleep, and fully hard. He turned over onto his stomach, and pressed down into the mattress, remembering just as much as the memory foam beneath him.

_I will use your body…_

Dean didn’t doubt it. His scalp tingled from where she’d touched him, stroked through his hair, her red, painted nails digging down, biting crescents into sensitive skin. 

_You and me lover, we’ll have a grand old time…_

Dean groaned louder, pressed down harder against the mattress, his cock hardening to the point of pain. Abaddon was right about one thing. It was enough to give a person all sorts of nasty ideas. 

He’d jacked off in the shower, drunk enough that sleep wouldn’t be an issue. Yet, here he was. Three hours later, wide awake and harder than he’d been in a very long time, probably ever.

He should be disgusted, repulsed even, and part of him was. The part that knew _exactly_ what a girl sounded like as he ripped her guts out. One, two, thousands? He’d lost count of the sheer number of souls that he’d heard scream. Heard beg, and plead as he tore into their flesh. Mutilating until there was nothing left but the blood that stained his forearms a deep crimson red. 

The whisky had helped with his guilt, that and telling himself there was no consciousness in there. No innocent soul trapped behind beautiful green eyes. Or soft, creamy flesh, commandeered, and used; ridden against her will. Josie was gone. The bullet in the mouth made sure of that. The slice and dice taking care of any lingering doubt, which served to trigger a whole new spiral of guilt. He was lusting after a demon, one wearing the face of a dead chick, gorgeous but still; very much dead. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Dean hissed. He shuddered, skin prickling. It wasn’t the face she wore, it wasn’t even the body; toned, and curvaceous though it was. It was her. Abaddon. Knight of Hell. It was her strength, and her confidence. The smug smile that said she could ride him, or break him, and enjoy every second of either, or both. It was saying one thing and meaning the other, while the smouldering look in her eyes made clear her intent. 

Dean threw back the cover, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the hard length of his cock as he reached for his jeans. He had asked Kevin to look into Abaddon’s origin, and her reputation but after their… encounter? Dean had done some digging of his own. _Fire that consumes_ , one book said, another _“Exterminans”_ , Dean was no scholar, but he knew the word _“Destroyer”_ when he saw it, no matter the language. They, the Greeks, or whoever, couldn’t have chosen a more fitting descriptor. She’d already destroyed what little self-respect Dean had managed to claw back after Alistair, which made looking himself in the mirror that much harder, if that was even possible.

But still, he _wanted…_

The bunker was quiet as he made his way through the main level, and up the stairs to the balcony. He paused at the outer door, glanced once over his shoulder. Kevin was still passed out in one of the back rooms, Crowley secure in the basement, and Sam? Well, Sam was riding an Angelic high, even if he didn’t know it. They could spare him for an hour or two, long enough for him to clear his head. 

Dean closed the door quietly behind him. The Jack Daniels a warm, comforting buzz just under his skin, but his head was free of alcohol, too clouded by a wicked smile, harsh, mocking laughter betrayed by hands that lingered in places no demon had a right to be. Hands that touched, teased, and tormented as much as her words. 

_When I’m on top…_

“Bitch!” Dean smashed his palm against the Impala’s steering wheel, cranked the key in the ignition, his right foot heavy on the gas. The Impala fishtailed in a spray of gravel, and Dean corrected on instinct, buried the accelerator in the floorboard and sped away from the bunker. Two hours later, he was propping up the bar in a late-night dive in Harrisonville.

He’d answered his cell on the second ring, told her where he was without need for coercion. He figured he was far enough away from the bunker for his whereabouts not to matter, and was now regretting the move. She couldn’t be trusted. Revealing his location, and the fact that he was alone had to be the most suicidally reckless thing he had ever done. He knew it the second he’d given her his coordinates, could hear his brain yelling at his cock to shut the fuck up. 

He peeled off several bills from his wallet, threw them down on the bar top and headed for the exit. He walked down the block, and toward the alley where he’d left the Impala. He’d have to take the long way back, make several detours just to make sure he wasn’t being followed… “Fuck..?” 

Dean’s was yanked back, air whooshing out his lungs, and his jacket bunched up around his shoulders, his head connecting sickeningly with the alley wall, seconds before he was spun around. He felt the scraping kiss of cold concrete pressed hard into his cheek, and his arm twisted painfully up his back. 

“Hello lover.”

Dean struggled, fought her hold as she crowded in, tight behind him, her breath warm against the back of his neck. 

“Abaddon,” Dean uttered breathlessly, undecided if he was happy, or totally repulsed. 

She moved in closer, stole the final inch. One hand slid around his throat to cup his jaw, a warning squeeze as her fingernails bit into bone. “In the flesh,” she breathed, and turned her head to lick a stripe up his cheek toward his ear. 

“Just not your own.” Dean tried to twist around, and winced as her fingernails dug crescent-shaped welts into his skin. His cock twitched against the confines of his jeans, the denim suddenly too tight. Too constrictive. Too much.

“Oh, but you like it,” 

Abaddon smiled as Dean shifted his weight in an attempt to ease the tightness, it didn’t help. Not when she caught his bottom lip between her teeth, and bit down, hard, before swiping her tongue against the prickle of blood that rose to the surface.

“Is it Josie that gets you hard?” Abaddon reached around Dean’s waist, cupped his eager cock, and squeezed. “Or do you just prefer a girl who knows what she wants?”

“You’re no girl.” Dean finally pulled free, twisted and slammed Abaddon hard against the wall. 

She made no move to break Dean’s hold, instead she grabbed for his hand, raised it to her chest and pressed it, palm down against her breast, covered it with her own, and smiled. “Really, because in all the places that matter, I am exactly that.”

Dean sucked in a breath. She was firm, rounded, her nipple hard beneath her shirt. He flexed his fingers, squeezed, and heard a low mocking laugh. He gritted his teeth against the sound, part anger, part revulsion and a whole lot aroused. She was right. He liked that she knew what she wanted, and wasn’t afraid to show it, unlike him. Even now he fought against the need to touch, and taste, to take and be taken and just abandon himself to the feel of her against him, around him, above him.

“Tell me I didn’t pick the wrong Winchester?” Abaddon mocked. 

Dean’s nostrils flared, anger overpowering the want.

“Do you want me to take it, Dean?” She continued. “Would that make you feel less disgusted with yourself?”

“Shut up?” Dean growled. 

“Less guilty?”

“I said shut up.”

“Maybe I should leave you here, and go find your brother. I hear tell…” 

Dean cut across her words with his mouth. He stepped closer, fingers squeezing hard against her breast, the other hand sliding down, catching the button on her jeans, and sliding beneath the material to cup her through her panties. The kiss caught fire, tongues seeking and finding, stroking against each other, her teeth worrying against his bottom lip, as he stroked against the wetness of cotton. 

“That’s it lover,” she breathed against his mouth. 

Dean groaned. He’d feel bad about this later. He knew it, but right now he’d never felt so good. So hard. 

He slid one finger under the line of her panties, through the wetness, and pressed it tight against her clit, and felt her buck upward.

“You like that?” Dean asked. He slid in another finger, pressed harder, as she bucked again, a back and forth movement, her smile evident, wide. Her lipstick slightly smeared as she stared him straight in the eyes. 

“You know it.” Abaddon grinned, and pressed forward, reached for his jeans, pulled hard on the buttons, freeing them from their snug fit, and yanking the denim down along with Dean’s shorts. “And by the look of it, so do you.”

Dean was done. He pulled his hand free of her jeans dragging down the zipper in the process and forced the denim down, all the way to her knees, and stepped back.

Abaddon grinned, and kicked off her shoes, and pulled one leg free, and then the other. He watched as she slipped long, slim fingers beneath the material of her pink panties, and slid them down to reveal tight, red curls. Dean stilled, already imagining the rasp of it as it chafed against his skin. He swallowed, shook himself, and dragged in a breath that was shaky and harsh. He held it for a second and then breathed out as he gripped the base of his cock to keep from coming. He reached for her at the same time as she stepped forward, and lifted one leg to circle his hip. She raised her hands to his shoulders as he slipped both hands beneath her naked ass and boosted her up against him. He lunged forward, and slammed her against the wall, pushed in, balls deep, and groaned.

“Jesus,” Dean breathed out. 

“Right sentiment, wrong direction,” Abaddon laughed, and then stilled as Dean thrust upward, fast and hard. 

He wasn’t going to last. He knew it. The heady, intimate blends of, arousal, perfumed sweat, and leather teased his nostrils, driving his lust and want. She was so tight, and wet as she clenched around him, taking him all the way in, welcoming each thrust. 

He brought her closer, hard against him as he thrust in again. This time pressing against her clit as he lifted her slightly with each forward movement and heard her moan, long and loud. She held nothing back as she dug her fingers into his shoulder and pushed herself back down onto his cock, circled her hips, once, and again. Her breath was hot, mouth as wet as her pussy as she leaned in and sucked where his pulse jumped to meet her touch. She moaned her need, husky and deep against the skin of Dean’s collarbone, her tongue tracing the silhouette of his anti-possession tattoo. 

Dean’s legs trembled. His balls ached with need, as he thrust faster, harder. She matched him, rocking her hips forward, then back in time with each thrust. Dean registered somewhere in the back of his mind that they would both have noticeable bruises later. Abaddon forced herself closer, as he shoved her back, harder against the wall with each forward shunt of his hips but right now Dean didn’t give a crap about bruises or anything other than release.

Abaddon moaned loudly, and Dean bit his own lip to stop from crying out, and tasted his own blood. Abaddon clenched tightly around him, his fingers clamped painfully into the curves of her ass, and he cried out as his orgasm hit.

…

Dean let his head fall forward, forehead resting against the leather of her jacket, and leaned the two of them against the wall. He shuddered and waited for his heart to stop trying to crash through his ribcage. His breathing slowed, finally, he lifted his head, avoided her gaze and took a step back. He watched Abaddon yank up her jeans, fasten them, and slip her feet into her six-inch heels. He felt her gaze drift over his shirt, open at the collar. Her gaze lingering at the dip where his shoulder met his collarbone, and lower to his tattoo. He stiffened but Abaddon merely smiled, and shook her head. 

“Relax. I’ll let you keep your tattoo a little while longer, Dean,” she laughed, as she stepped forward, and scraped a nail down his cheek. “Seems I chose the right brother after all.”


End file.
